Crucible

by Mercedes Lackey

  He was good, but it took only a few sallies for her to know she was better. He fought in a formal style, clearly trained in an elite nobles’ academy, and his finesse was no match for her more varied approach. The only thing that kept it from being a complete mismatch was her distraction as she kept one eye on the torch, shifting her position so that she could get near enough to try to scuff the flame out with her boot.

  As soon as he saw what she was trying to do, her opponent did his best to draw her away, pressing his attack so that she could make only one or two attempts before his blade forced her away from the smoldering flame.

  Farther along the edge of the woods, Del could hear the fighting between Keegan and the other two guards and the rest of the man’s companions. Three against five or six was not great odds, but she figured the guards from the lanes at the far end of the field would have heard the commotion by now and would soon join the fray.

  She shifted her position once more and scuffed at the torch again. It was guttering now, and with one more step she thought she’d ground it out enough to give her full attention to the play of their swords.

  As soon as she did, she felt the man’s confidence wavering. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how much the distraction of the possible forest fire had helped him. With a flurry of short, sharp blows, she had driven him out of the forest, onto the edge of the open field where she could swing the curved blade with ease.

  Her opponent’s eyes darted back and forth, clearly looking for an avenue of escape, and she eased her attack, letting him think he might have a chance to dart past her to the right, toward the lane from which he had come. As he made his move, she shifted her weight and swung with the flat of the blade, catching him across the temple.

  Because of her angle, the blow hadn’t enough of her strength behind it to knock him unconscious, but it was sufficient to make his steps wobble, and she simply threw herself against him, her weight carrying him to the ground.

  His head hitting the turf finished what her blow had started, and she quickly removed his blade and used his own belt to tie him.

  By now, several of the harvesters had gathered around, and she nodded at one of them. “Fetch Master Varyon, and the rest of you keep this one secured until he arrives.” Then she turned and ran back down the lane.

  Keegan and the two guards were holding their own against the four remaining attackers, and her arrival turned the balance. The four hooded men turned tail and fled, leaving their fallen comrades behind.

  By the time Master Varyon and his personal guard arrived, they had dragged the bodies to join the unconscious one, while the harvesters returned to their task, intent on taking advantage of the last light of dusk to bring in as much as they could before rain soaked the grain.

  Two other men, neither one in a guard’s uniform, had come with Master Varyon, and Del narrowed her eyes, studying them as they approached. The first, with his darker olive complexion and dark eyes, she immediately guessed to be Rulijah Tavamere’s missing husband, but the second held her attention. This was no fighter, nor did he have the comfortable look of the landowner. He had a round face, bright blue eyes, and an open expression that no doubt meant many underestimated him. But Del had seen the sharp intelligence in those blue eyes, and she stepped forward.

  “Nakon Dryvale?” All three men stopped and blinked, for she had told Master Varyon only that she was in the employ of Rulijah Tavamere. Master Varyon and Eleu Tavamere turned to the brown-haired man, who took one more step toward her.

  “Aye?” he said, his inflection rising to make the word a question.

  “I am Delani Birren. My late partner”—she forced the words out past the tightness in her throat—“and I were hired to deliver this.” Reaching into her belt pouch, she took out the tube and handed it to him.

  He stared at her for a long moment, then opened the tube and removed the letter. Swiftly scanning the contents, his eyes widened before he grinned.

  “You are well met indeed, Delani Birren,” he said, then turned to Master Varyon, holding the sheet of paper out to him. “It’s the proof we’ve been looking for. Proof of what the Blues are up to, and that, combined with the evidence of this one . . .” He gestured at the still-unconscious fighter.

  “That will be enough for the Council,” Master Varyon finished. “It won’t take the Blues down completely, of course, but at least we’ll know we can trust the Guild and Guard again.”

  He looked over at Del, and smiled. “You have certainly proved yourself in this matter, Delani. I am doubly grateful, not only for your timely warning to protect the early harvest, but also for the delivery of this letter. If you do not have other commitments—” He let the word hang in the air a moment before continuing. “I would show you my gratitude by offering you a guard’s contract for as long as you desire.”

  Del blinked, taken aback by the offer. For many of the Mercenary Guild, such an opportunity would be highly desirable: reliable employ and not too dangerous. She doubted that Master Varyon’s travels would ever take him through some of the more hazardous regions she had been in with the caravans. But something held her back.

  When in doubt, trust your guts. Jenny’s words, again, as always. Jenny had been one to use her intuition, and she’d tried to encourage the stolidly unimaginative Del to do the same. She shook her head, slowly.

  “While I appreciate the offer, Master Varyon, I do not think I am well-suited to a long-term position.” And I’m certainly not well-suited to Mornedealth, she thought, although she would never say such a thing. “A traveling merc life is better for me.” And a quiet, not-too-dangerous life would leave me too much time to think. To remember.

  The older man nodded, although she doubted that he understood. “If you come this way again and your mind has changed, my offer will stand. For now, let us celebrate the harvest!”

  Dusk had fallen thoroughly by now, and the harvesters and guards made their way by torchlight back to the storage barns and the manor house. Master Varyon invited all into the Great Hall, where the smells of the feast to come made mouths water.

  Del and the handful of field guards were placed in positions of honor at the main table, and Keegan sat beside her. As their cups were being filled, he leaned over to her.

  “If you’re not wishing to travel on alone, I’d be pleased to join you.”

  She stared at him. “But, your smithy . . .” her voice trailed off.

  He shrugged, then smiled, his dark eyes glinting. “Today reminded me of how much I enjoyed the feel of blade in hand against more than air. Plenty of time for me to be a smith later in life.”

  “Assuming we survive to later in life,” Del said, her heart aching. At least no others will lose their lives for the sake of these corrupt nobles. This time.

  “Then it’s agreed!” Her use of the word “we” had not gone unnoticed. Keegan held up his cup, and she raised hers to meet it. “To the harvest, and to the road,” he said.

  “To the road,” she replied, and drank deeply.

  Before a River Runs Through It

  Fiona Patton

  The midsummer heat had come early to Valdemar’s capital, covering the cobblestone streets in a shimmering wave of sweltering haze that spiraled slowly up between the buildings by day, then settled back down into a thick, stifling blanket of humidity by night.

  At the Truncheon, a local watchmen’s tavern, retired officers of the law tucked themselves into the shadowy recesses of the common room, nursed their beers, and reminisced about other, either far hotter or far colder, seasons they had known.

  On Iron Street, Ismy and Suli Dann, expecting their first and third child respectively, took their work down to the cool, dim cellars of their tenement, while at the Iron Street Watchhouse, their husbands, Hektor and Aiden Dann of the Haven City Watch, stood on Hektor’s desk, struggling with the latch of the tiny window set high in the back wall of
the Day Sergeant’s office. The two men worked in grim silence until Aiden’s fingers slipped on the slick metal, barking his knuckles against the windowsill. With a muttered curse, he shot his younger brother an exasperated look.

  “Give it up, Hek,” he groused, pressing his hand against his shirt—both men had tossed off their light blue and gray watchman’s tunics early on in the fight. “It’s never gonna budge.”

  “It’ll budge,” Hektor panted. “It has to. Jus’ keep at it, Corporal.”

  Growling, Aiden caught hold of the latch again and, with a savage jerk, forced it free. The window cracked opened a single inch, then stuck fast.

  As a meager stream of warm, moist air trickled into the room, Hektor wiped a sleeve across his face. “Tol’ you it’d budge,” he said.

  Aiden’s expression changed to one of flat disapproval. “It’s no cooler,” he pointed out. “Fact is, I think it’s hotter.” His face suddenly twisted in disgust. “An’ what is that stink?”

  Hektor opened his mouth, then quickly pressed his lips together. “Help me get this closed again,” he said through clenched teeth.

  As the two men reached for the window again, the door slammed open to admit their youngest brother, Padreic, his face flushed from both heat and excitement.

  “There’s a fearful barney goin’ on out the front way, Hek!” he announced breathlessly.

  “’Tween who, Runner?” Hektor demanded without looking around.

  “Orin an’ his lot against some littles from down Water Street way!”

  “Who?”

  Padreic gave his older brother a twelve-year-old’s best eye roll. “Th’ dung boy, Orrin, what collects the pigeon buckets, his kin, an’ those what haul from lower down in th’ city ’round Exile’s Gate,” he explained with exaggerated care. “They’re punchin’ it up right in front of the watchhouse, an’ there’s crap an’ slops all over the street!”

  “Well, that explains the smell,” Aiden said dryly, jumping down from the desk.

  • • •

  By the time the three Danns reached the main doors, a crowd of watchmen, both on duty and off, had already gathered around the front steps. Hektor pushed through the press of men either unable or unwilling to break up what appeared to be about two dozen seven- to ten- year-olds, surrounded by upended soil buckets, fighting and screaming curses at each other in the street below. Some of the watchmen were laughing, some were taking bets, but most were content to see how long it would play out in this heat.

  With the smell steadily growing worse, Hektor turned to Hydd Thacker, a twenty-year veteran, who was leaning against the steps, smoking his pipe. “Get it sorted, Corporal.”

  In no great hurry to end the morning’s entertainment, Hydd banged the bowl of his pipe against the side of the building. “Did ye want the little monsters run off or arrested, Sarge?” he asked with mock formality.

  Hektor eyed the struggling children. Most were poorly dressed and poorly washed, or at least there seemed to be an old layer of dust and grime under the new layer of excrement and rotten vegetable peelings, and those arms and legs he could see looked frighteningly thin. Despite the heat, a large crowd was beginning to gather, and it was only a matter of time before some blacksmith or grocer got a face full of dung and took matters into his own hands. He made up his mind. “Bring ’em in,” he ordered. “We’ll sort ’em out downstairs.”

  As one, the gathered watchmen turned aghast expressions on their young officer.

  “You wanna bring ’em to the cells in this heat?” Hydd demanded. “With that smell? The whole buildin’ll reek.”

  “Nothin’ a few buckets of soap and water won’t mend.” Hektor turned a patently false smile on the older man. “That is, if you think the men are up t’ subduin’ such dangerous rioters?”

  Shaking his head, Hydd stowed his pipe before loudly clearing his throat. “All right, you lot,” he shouted, “get this street under control now!”

  “Gently,” Hektor added, turning to see his thirteen-year-old sister, Kasiath, apprenticed to the watchhouse messenger-bird master, standing just inside the doors. “They’re littles, after all.”

  “Little monsters, you mean,” Hydd muttered as he headed down the steps.

  Hektor nodded absently as one of the children saw the corporal bearing down on him and threw a fist-sized piece of . . . something at his head. “You’re likely right.”

  Once the watchmen took the field in force, the fighting ended in a matter of minutes. Without bothering with much finesse, each man made a grab for the nearest combatant, and with a dozen in custody, some tucked under arms and others flung over shoulders like furious sacks of grain, they headed back to the watchhouse, doing their best to avoid the mess in the street while keeping a grip on their struggling prisoners.

  “You missed a few,” Aiden noted, watching the rest of the children on both sides of the fray take to their heels.

  “Got the ringleaders, tho’.” Hydd grunted as his captive, a boy of maybe six or seven, aimed a kick at his ankles and was hauled into the air by the front of his tunic for his troubles. “S’all that matters.”

  “Yeah, criminal masterminds, the lot of ’em.”

  “Everyone starts somewhere. Mark my words, this one’ll dance at the end of a rope one day.”

  “Likely.” Aiden turned to Hektor as Hydd pushed past them, doing nothing to keep the boy’s flailing feet and fists away from the other men. “Is there even room for ’em all downstairs?”

  “There was naught but ol’ Jez in on his missus’ usual drunk an’ disorderly lockout at shift change,” Hektor answered, leaning to one side to avoid a kick in the head.

  Aiden grinned. “I reckon he’ll soon want out again once he gets a look at his new cellmates.”

  Hektor gave an uncharacteristic snort. “I reckon he’s been cooler than I’ve been all mornin’,” he groused. “This is the third time this week. He’s just after a cool bed an’ a free breakfast. He can wait.”

  He turned toward the crowd, but, with no more entertainment to keep them outdoors, they were dispersing back to the relative comfort of their own workshops.

  “When’s the Captain due back from the countryside?” Aiden asked as they headed back inside, keeping a safe distance from their fellow watchmen.

  “Three or four days, a week maybe, if this weather doesn’t break,” Hektor answered. “That might be just long enough to get all this sorted.”

  Aiden glanced back at the street, already beginning to steam in the midmorning sun. “I doubt it,” he replied, heading for the stairs.

  • • •

  The basement level of the Iron Street Watchhouse had originally been constructed more like a maze of small storage cellars than a true jail, but, at some point during the last century, most of the walls had been knocked down to build three reasonably sized cells set side by side in the center of the main room. It was dark and cool, and, as they descended the stairs, Hektor considered moving his office down there for the season.

  The noise as well as the smell, changed his mind almost immediately.

  The two end cells were full of screaming children, all hurling insults and whatever they still had in their hands at each other. Thankfully, no one seemed to be fighting inside the cells themselves, but the noise was still enough to make their ears ring.

  “We jus’ managed to separate ’em,” Hydd noted darkly, wiping his face, grown dangerously red, with a damp handkerchief.

  “How’d you know who to put where?” Aiden asked.

  “Every time we pulled a couple of the little curs apart, we’d throw ’em in a different cell. If they didn’t fight there, we figured we got it right. Only went wrong a few times,” he added as one of the children threw a particularly scathing invective in his direction. “Like that one. Shut up, you, or you’ll feel the back of my hand!”

  “Hav
e you tried questionin’ any of ’em?” Hektor asked.

  “Well, they stink somethin’ dreadful, so no ones been too fussy about gettin’ too close, but be my guest, Sarge, if you think you can get anythin’ but a pack of lies out of ’em.

  “They’re naught but skin an’ bones under all them rags,” the older man added quietly, his usual scowl twisted into an expression of reluctant concern. “My missus’d throw a fit if she saw the state of ’em. They could use some feedin’.”

  Hektor nodded. “Is there any nut porridge left over from Jez’s breakfast?”

  “Don’t think so, but Nessa’s still here.”

  “Get her to make up another batch, will you? Maybe they’ll be more willin’ to talk on a full belly.”

  “What about Jez?”

  “What about ’im?”

  Hydd gave him an exasperated look. “We could use the space, Sarge,” he explained patiently.

  “Fair point.” Hektor finally turned his attention to the solitary figure standing by the door to the central cell, his eyes shooting daggers in their direction. “Jez,” he said in a neutral voice.

  The old man glanced from one group of choleric children to the next before returning his dark gaze to the watchman. “Sergeant Dann,” he replied in the same tone.

  “I expect you’ll be wantin’ out.”

  “Wouldn’t be sayin’ no ta it. In yer own good time, o’ course,” he added sarcastically.

  Hektor raised an eyebrow, then nodded at Hydd, who pulled a set of keys off the peg by the stairs and headed over.

  Once the cell door was open, Jez dusted off his clothes with exaggerated care, then stalked past them with a muttered, “This never would’ve been allowed in your father’s day,” before stumping up the stairs.

  “Don’t imagine we’ll be seein’ much of ’im for the next little while, heat or no heat,” Aiden noted.